Not Your Usual Day At The Office
by ricreaper
Summary: The Joker has a pest problem. One which cannot be dealt with as easily as he first thought.


**A/N OK, another Joker story, this time parodying all those wonderful fan girls. Yay. Anywho, this story has not been beta'd, buuuuuut…have a read anyway. Enjoy!**

'OH MY GOD! JOKER! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LO-' Bang.

Another one bites the dust. Another ridiculous and fanatical cry for attention silenced by the blast of a firearm. Another moronic, inane and downright _crazy_ attempt at acquiring the attenuated attention of the famous, fabled and first-class Joker himself.

The Joker paused. He was alliterating. In his own internal monologue. He found that rather unusual. Which, in itself, was odd, considering that many people would consider his entire existence unusual. What with the whole 'one man against the entire mob, the police force and a man who wears body armour and kicks the crap out of criminals every night' thing. Still – _Alliteration._

Then again, if any situation could rightly call for literary techniques within someone's train of thought, it was this one. Now, the Joker had faced many horrors in his life (Anyone who didn't know this already needs to take a closer look at his scars. Not too close, though. Or he'll kill you). He had stared down many enemies and had them crying in the corner within no time (Before he'd killed them, of course). But this – this was just obscene. These monstrosities, these harpies, these – these – _fan girls_.

The Joker knew that he was widely considered a 'bad' person by the population of Gotham. And by 'population of Gotham', he meant everyone who had ever heard of him. Even so, he didn't think that he deserved _this_. Nobody deserved this. Not him. Not the mob. Not Batman. Not that cop that he had gutted in front of his children before burning down that orphanage. Nobody. However, he seemed to be stuck with this irritating problem for now. And when the Joker had a problem, he dealt with it. And when he deals with problems, he generally stabs them. Or shoots them. Or sets them on fire. Or blows them up. Or kills their family. And so that is what he did.

At first it was normal. Slit throat here, bullet-between-the-eyes there…y'know, usual day at the office. But they kept coming. And coming. There were just so _many_…Now, you're probably asking yourself, 'Why would that be a problem? Doesn't the Joker like the murder business?' Yes, he does. The more kills the merrier. But as long as there's _variety_. As long as there's _meaning_. There was none of that there. Just one psychotic teenager after the other. All the same. All boring. And on top of that, it was all the attention it drew to him. Sure, he liked attention when he was blowing up buildings and aggravating the Batman – but he couldn't do that if he had every cop in the city alerted to his whereabouts. And the piles of corpses in the streets, warehouses and wherever else these weirdoes found him did not scream 'inconspicuous'…and neither did the people who found them. They just screamed, mostly. Again, not helpful.

The only solution was to find the root of the problem, and stab _that_. Or shoot it. Or…you get the picture. But there was a slight problem. The Joker could not, for the life of him, figure out what had spawned this sudden obsession with him. Could it be his looks? Looking at his reflection in a nearby window, he immediately decided: No. There was absolutely nothing attractive about him. His hair was a dirty green colour and had not been washed in about a year. His teeth had not been brushed in even longer, and were almost stained black. He wore greasepaint all over his face which gave of the rather unattractive odour of grease. And paint, oddly enough. On top of that, there were the rather obvious and yet repulsive facial disfigurements which he takes a certain pleasure in pointing out to people he's just about to kill. Then again, they say chicks dig scars…There's a thought. The Joker giggled at the thought of giving romantic advice to teenage boys; _Just remember guys, you want the girl, you gotta carve up your face with a razorblade – and best make sure your parents don't find out. In fact, just kill them. Along with the girl. And then burn down an orphanage._ Again with the orphanages? The Joker was beginning to think he might have a slight problem. He looked down at the broken mess that was once a fully-functioning parasite to society (before receiving a shotgun blast to the face - Merry Christmas). Yeah, definite problem. Maybe he should go to the police? He snorted at the idea. That would certainly be a fun visit; 'Howdy, partners! You reckon you could help me out? I'm in dire need of –'

'OH MY GOD, IT'S THE JOKER! JOKER! I LOVE YOU! I WANT YOUR BABIES!'

Oh, for goodness sake, again? And in the middle of his internal monologue (Which, for some odd reason, he had decided to do in a cowboy accent)? Right. No more Mister Nice-Guy-Who-Was-Never-Actually-Nice-In-The-First-Place-Because-He's-The-Joker-And-He's-A-Psychopathic-Killer. Time to get nasty. And by 'get nasty', he meant do the same thing that he'd been doing since this started - killing the offending future-wrist-slitters…Wait a minute.

Hold the phone.

What if it was the murdering that attracted them in the first place? He briefly glanced at the corpse on the ground. He had to admit, they were pretty crazy – even by his standards. Maybe all these girls had developed some sort of sick infatuation with his criminal ways. That in itself was a statistical improbability. One girl becoming obsessed with a wanted murderer/terrorist was weird enough, but the Joker was dealing with them in waves. Maybe they had all started a group, or a club? Maybe this was the start of some twisted city-wide Stockholm syndrome? 'Statistical improbability'? The Joker needed to lie down.

But, more importantly, he had to eliminate the rather irritating problem that had been screaming at the top of her voice and running towards him during the time it took to put together all these thoughts – she was making quite the fool of herself. Except this time, the Joker wasn't going to kill her straight away. Instead, he intercepted her, spun her around, threw her against a wall (That was totally there before), leaned in very close and growled – literally _growled_ – in his most menacing tone,

'Why are you here? What the hell are you and all these others –' He nodded to the first corpse, ' – doing?' The girl didn't respond at first, and the Joker primarily thought that she had gone into shock due to his alarming attitude. _Oh, for goodness sake_ he thought, whilst grabbing her head and shaking it around, 'I said, _why are you here?_' The girl still didn't respond, and the Joker briefly considered some form of elaborate torture that he had already started devising in his mind. It involved knives. And giving her a choice between a civil servant and a loved one (He wasn't feeling particularly imaginative). But before he could enact aforementioned torture, something began to happen to the girl.

Her eyes were rolling back into her head, so much that the whites of her eyes were all you could see. Her hands were now gripping his arms so tight he was wondering if she would be good as an industrial-grade vice. Her legs were pushed tightly together and she was squirming around uncontrollably. It took the Joker five seconds to realise she was actually _enjoying_ this, upon which he promptly grabbed her head, twisted until he heard something snap, dropped her, and scrambled away, rubbing his hands on his coat and squealing 'Ewww! Ewwww! _Ewww!'_

It took him several minutes of breathing deeply and murdering any witnesses to this incredibly un-Joker-like display of childishness before he calmed down completely. After this, the Joker lay down on his back and stared at the inky black sky, darkened not by the night but by the tonnes and tonnes of smog and toxic fumes pumped into the atmosphere by America's 'greatest' city. The Joker thought about the girls he had killed, about how they kept coming and about how they were not only undeterred by his psychopathic tendencies, they actually _enjoyed _it. The overwhelming feeling of realization that he couldn't stop it came crashing down on him like an asteroid. This loss of control surrounded his mind, blacking out his senses like the very night sky and suddenly he felt very tired. He didn't want to get up. He wanted to just lie there, until the cops arrested him or the mob got their payback.

But he couldn't do that, could he? This city _needed_ him. Even if they didn't know it yet. So what if he couldn't control everything? He was always telling Batman that controlling things was futile and pointless, who was he to go against his very own philosophy? And the worst thing that these girls could do to him was drive him crazy.

And that's not so bad, is it?

**A/N Read. Review. Dance. Whatever you want to do. Adios.**


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